Laugh for Me
by RynnaJ
Summary: Inspired by a kink meme prompt. When a stressed Russia comes to visit, France tries to find a way to break him out of his temperamental state. An unexpected weakness of the larger nation turns out to be just what France needs to solve the problem.


This was a gift for a friend of mine, who has a major tickle fetish. I think she's starting to give me one too damn her! And this became a lot longer than I planned because I love France and I love Russia, so I tend to go on and on when I write about them.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

**XXXXXXXXXXX**

France sighed with relief as he rolled his vacuum cleaner back into the closet. He had just spent the better part of two hours cleaning every inch of his flat to prepare for his upcoming visitor. For a moment he wondered why he bothered – it wasn't as though Russia would have been upset by a bit of disarray in his apartment. Francis Bonnefoy prided himself on five things though; his well-groomed appearance, his immaculate sense of style, his cooking, his proficiency in activities of the sexual variety, and his ability to make a good impression. A messy home was, in his eyes, not conducive to making a good impression.

He looked around his living room with a satisfied smile. The mixture of modern and old-fashioned style was unique and attractive – just like himself! He had said as much to England the last time the island-nation had visited and was rudely told to "get the bloody hell over yourself." France snorted at the memory; he didn't see how having pride in oneself was a fault, England certainly had enough of it.

Russia wouldn't insult him in such a manner. Despite what France knew the northern nation was capable of, Russia was usually friendly and polite to Francis. The two nations had been friends for a long time; the bad blood of the Napoleonic years long since put behind them. France was admittedly fond of Ivan Braginski, when he wasn't being scary or violent of course. He had a habit of doing that.

Francis liked to think that he'd seen pieces of the heavily guarded nation that others had not; pieces that were sensitive, sweeter, and more innocent. Those aspects of Russia had come out far more often in the past, when France was visiting a young, still developing nation. The turmoil of the 20th century had caused Russia to take most of the facets that he and his leaders had deemed "weaknesses" and lock them tightly away behind thick mental barriers.

But those barriers had significant cracks even back then and were quickly breaking down in the past few years, now that Russia and his people were fast on the mend. France had seen the cold nation give more genuine smiles, have less tendency towards violence, and have more moments when he seemed actually happy (not just a mask) than he had in nearly a century. Francis was relieved by this; he had been worried about Ivan for quite a while and it was very nice to have some of that worry alleviated. After all, stress caused wrinkles.

He had expected to see Russia accompany his officials on their diplomatic visit to Paris this morning, but he hadn't at all expected the large nation's request to visit with Francis himself later that day, away from political matters. France had been a bit wary at first, but agreed when Ivan had seemed to genuinely want to spend time with him. He had been obviously tired and stressed during the meeting, despite of his usual "happy" smile. Smiles couldn't hide tense shoulders or dark bags under exhausted purple eyes.

Yes, some time with Francis may be just what he needed. France also supposed he hadn't interacted with Russia outside of meetings for a long while, and the tall nation _had_ looked very handsome in his tailored black suit and usual scarf. Not to mention that Francis had been feeling lonely lately. And horny. He didn't expect Russia to do anything about that, but the possibility certainly wasn't off the table as far as France was concerned.

He strolled into his kitchen and grabbed a bottle of fine red wine by its neck off of his marble kitchen counter. In the other hand he set the stems of two wine glasses between his fingers and cupped the rest in his palm. As he walked to his bedroom, his favorite place to entertain, he wondered if Ivan would actually drink the wine with him this time or just pull out a flask of vodka as usual.

Stepping into his room, Francis made sure everything was in alignment along the stylish, dark red-wood furniture, deep, wine-colored carpet, and the very large, old-fashioned four post bed complete with canopy. He loved that bed; it was firm and soft in all the right places.

Satisfied, he set the wine and cups down on a small table next to the room's large window – one that had a wonderful view of the city. A bubbling feeling began in the pit of his stomach; nervousness. Not the "I should get ready to surrender" kind, but the "I'm excited to see this person again" kind. Francis chuckled at himself; how long had it been since he'd felt like this?

Just as Francis finished setting out the wine, the doorbell rang. Surprised, he looked at his watch and saw that it was exactly 5:00 pm; the time he and Russia had agreed upon. France ran a hand over his long, wavy blonde hair to smooth down any free-fliers and walked as casually as he could to answer the door. He would rather not look like an overeager child when he greeted the sometimes child-like nation.

France adjusted his rich purple silk shirt and black pants before opening the door to a large figure with a big smile and shining violet eyes.

"_Privet Frantsiya_!" Russia greeted happily. France smiled in return and stepped aside to allow him in.

"_Bonjour Russie_." He replied, watching Russia look curiously around his flat. Ivan was wearing his usual coat and scarf but thankfully he seemed to have left his metal pipe behind. The nation mumbled something in Russian then turned around to grin at France again. He reached a gloved hand into his coat to pull out something and offer it to his host.

"This is for you." Russia said softly, a blush forming along his cheekbones. Francis blinked for a moment before stretching his lips in a wide smile and accepting the slightly rumpled sunflower.

"Ah, _très belle_!" Francis said warmly. He looked into the other's eyes and was taken aback by the tenderness he saw there, "_Merci_, Ivan."

"_De rien_," Ivan responded in French with a slight Russian accent. France smirked; apparently Russia hadn't completely forgotten the language that many of his people once spoke along with their native Russian.

The two stood in silence for a short moment before Francis remembered his manners. "Oh, _Russie_, you can take off your coat and hang it on the hook on the door. Just put your shoes next to mine in the closet to your left. When you are done you can wait in my room while I put this in some water," he said, gesturing to the sunflower, "It's the door with the French flag on it."

Russia nodded eagerly and began shedding his heavy overcoat. France was tempted to stay and watch him undress but figured he ought to do what he said he would before the flower wilted. He turned and walked back into his kitchen to start the search for a suitable container. As he rooted through his cupboards he heard two thumps of Russia kicking off his boots with a giggle and then the soft sound of socked feet near-skipping towards his bedroom. France shook his head as he pulled out a glass vase and began filling it with water. That nation was more than a little strange.

With the flower newly settled, Francis walked to his room, the tingling in his stomach returning as he laid his hand on the doorknob. He couldn't hear anything inside except for Russia humming an unidentifiable song. France shook his hair back and stood up straighter as he entered.

Russia was sitting a little stiffly with his hands in his lap in one of the brown leather chairs situated next to the table on which Francis had placed the wine. He now only wore a thin, rather tight-fitting white long-sleeved shirt, brown pants, and his scarf. Upon seeing France enter he looked up and smiled gently. Raking his eyes over the larger nation, Francis was suddenly struck by how handsome he was. His silver-blond hair was ruffled and carelessly fell across his forehead and into his eyes in a way that France found charming. Those gorgeous violet eyes stared into his own blue ones with an intensity that could only belong to Russia, along with the strong, prominent nose that may have looked awkward on other faces but very much suited Ivan's. The tight shirt he was wearing outlined the strength in his shoulders and chest, something France very much appreciated. He wouldn't mind ripping off that shirt and running his tongue along that chest right about now.

He shook his head to clear those thoughts, such things could wait. He could still see those bags under Ivan's eyes and the tension in his frame; something was definitely bothering him. Perhaps he had come to France for help or support. If that was the case then France would do his best to relieve that stress, even if it had to be sans physical contact.

"I am happy to see you _Russie," _France started as he sat down in the chair across from Russia's, crossing his right leg over his left "but I assume that you came to visit me for a reason." He grabbed the bottle of wine on the table and began to open it.

Russia pouted, "Why does there have to be a reason," he asked with a whine in his voice, "Can I not just spend time with a friend?" The way his eyes lit up with hope after saying the last word caused a knot to form in France's throat.

"Of course you can _mon ami,_" France said softly, reaching over to take the stem of Ivan's glass. "I just noticed that you seemed….tired at the meeting this morning. Was there anything you wanted to talk about?" He tipped the mouth of the bottle over the rim of the glass and began pouring in the red liquid.

Ivan shifted uncomfortably and muttered something in Russian, "I just….ah no, do not mind me, I am fine," he sat up straight again and plastered on his usual smile, "That wine is good, da? It looks expensive. I am, how do you say, partial to my vodka but I usually like what you give me."

"_Russie_," Francis said dryly, easily seeing through Russia's half-hearted façade. He didn't want to push too hard lest Russia leave or do something more unpleasant, but Ivan needed to get something off of his chest. France knew how the other nation could hold onto things and let them stew to a dangerous point, and he wasn't going to let that happen now. He looked into Ivan's eyes, hoping his curiosity and concern were reaching the other.

Russia's smile faltered then fell slightly. He sighed and accepted the glass of wine France held out to him, taking a sip as he trained his eyes on the table. He was silent for a while and Francis wondered whether anything would actually be said. Then Russia, still looking down, started to speak.

"My people," he began, the hand in his lap curling into a fist, "are getting restless. Some of them are angry and unsatisfied and…they are not _happy_ Frantsiya," his fist tightened and he set his glass down with more force than necessary. France just listened and nodded, surprised that he had even gotten this much out of the normally closed-off Russian.

Russia shifted again, "And I…do not know what to do because when they are sad then I am sad. I can _feel_ them and I do not….I do not want things to be the way they were before." He tilted his head back and downed the rest of his wine in one large gulp, "I do not want to be alone anymore." He near whispered.

France, extremely humbled that Russia would share such a personal thing with him, knew that he had to do the right thing or risk losing the trust that allowed these confessions. Unfortunately he wasn't sure what the right thing was, but he could give it his best shot.

"You are just experiencing a bump in the road," France said, intertwining his fingers in his lap and leaning forward, "I have seen your people and they are doing so much better than they were, _Russie, so_ much better. But you are still a young federation; it is going to take some time before you sort things out completely. And yes, people are going to protest and some are never going to be completely satisfied, but that is all part of it _mon ami._" He was relieved as he saw some of the tension leave Russia's shoulders.

"But what if…" Russia started.

"It is not going to be the way it was again," France interrupted. "You are going to get better and stronger. Look how far you have come in only a short time," he smiled, "Do not be so paranoid. Your people do not hate you; they are just trying to make their government better, to improve. Sure you will not be at America's level for…."

Before France could try to take back the words Russia had already slammed his hands on the table and looked up with a scowl.

"Are you saying that Amerika is better than me?" the large nation snapped. France groaned; Alfred and Ivan were on much better terms these days and could actually hold a conversation or go out drinking together without fighting, to the point where one could almost call them friends. However, both still retained a ridiculous competitive streak when it came to the other and sometimes it came out rather harshly. France figured that he probably shouldn't have tried to compare them while Russia was having a vulnerable moment.

The Russian stood from his seat with an angry snort and walked a few strides away from the table. He stood there stiffly, his back to Francis and his arms crossed.

Francis also rose from his seat and moved tentatively towards Russia, "I apologize; I did not mean it in that manner, I…"

Russia turned his head around and gave him an icy glare. France paled a little and stepped back; the other nation could be incredibly intimidating.

Usually Russia was fine with someone looking fearfully at him, but the bit of trepidation on France's face only seemed to make him more upset. He turned away from again and his shoulders sagged as he gave a drained sigh. France frowned, worried. Those few words couldn't have been enough to undo what he had just done! No, he decided, Russia was just being temperamental due to his earlier stress and needed some cheering up. At least that's what Francis hoped as he approached Ivan again.

"Iiiivan," he sang teasingly, "_Russie_." When Russia remained where he was like a statue, France walked around to stand front of him so he could see the other's face.

Russia was smiling again, but his violet eyes, hardened with anger and a touch of self-loathing, gave him away. He was staring at a point on the wall beyond Francis, disregarding the romance nation's approach. Annoyed at being ignored and strengthened by concern for his friend, France leaned in closer and gave Russia a friendly grin (most likely more seductive then he intended but what could he say? He _was_ Francis Bonnefoy after all).

"Do not be so moody _mon ami_, you are much more handsome when you are happy," France said sweetly. When the larger nation continued to stare right through him, Francis pouted and reached out to poke Russia's side with his pointer finger.

As soon as the touch landed, Russia yelped and shoved France away with enough force to send the flirtatious nation stumbling back a few steps. France flailed out a hand and grabbed at one of the hand-carved wooden posts supporting his bed, effectively halting his fall.

With his balance regained, France lifted a hand to smooth down his frazzled blond hair and narrowed his eyes critically at Russia.

"And what did I do to deserve such rough treatment," France asked sharply, ire coming forth.

The large Russian's smile had gotten smaller and the look in his eyes was one of mixed annoyance and confusion. He also seemed to have snapped out of his anger, a fact for which France was very thankful. He looked down and saw that Russia had lifted a hand to block the area where he had poked. Francis considered him, puzzled. He hadn't hurt him with just a poke, had he? He couldn't have, Russia was too accustomed to pain for such a little thing to affect him.

But perhaps - France thought with growing excitement - hurt was not the right sensation. Could it be that Russia was….?

France's indignant expression positively melted into one of warm, smug satisfaction. The corners of his lips stretched and curled into a devious smile. Oh, this was simply _delicious_.

"_Onhonhonhon_, is that it, _ma_ _Russie_?" he drawled sensuously, sauntering closer to the taller nation with his usual impeccable grace and poise. Russia's discomfort at his approach was palpable in the tensing of his shoulders and the hint of warning that appeared in his eyes.

France had known Russia long enough to be able to gauge whether the nation was just trying to intimidate or whether he was about to send his water pipe crashing down on an unfortunate skull. Others would swear that the northern nation was completely unpredictable, but France knew better. There were subtle cues in how high he raised his shoulders or the pitch of his giggle that were noticeable to those who were unafraid enough to read them.

Besides, the two nations were friends and had been for quite a long time. France liked to think that he was respected by Russia, or at least seen as being trustworthy considering the powerful nation had not made a move to hurt him in centuries.

No, Russia definitely liked France- France, with his considerable experience in romance, could tell. Russia seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with him on the few instances that the personifications were together outside of official meetings. France always found the intimidating nation's presence powerful, often to the point where a cold thrill rushed down his spine every time he even walked too close to the other, but in those moments it was soothing and could warm him to the tips of his toes.

On some visits they would sit on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower, France with a glass of red wine and Russia with a bottle of vodka, and just talk. Or rather France would talk to Russia and Russia would mostly listen with gentle attention or, on rare occasions, a response that reminded Francis that behind Ivan's childish façade and bouts of insanity laid an incredible, sometimes dangerous, amount of intelligence and sensitivity.

Now and again, much more frequently in the past two decades, he would even grace France with one of his rare genuine smiles - ones smaller and much warmer than his typical grin. When France would return it, Russia would blush slightly and hide part of his face in his ever-present scarf. Those instances reminded the Frenchman of a time long ago, when the large nation, then shorter and more innocent, had been completely infatuated with France and his customs. He had happily listened to Francis's rambling then as well - looked up to him with wide eyes and a big smile. Ivan had always been a good listener.

No, France thought to himself as he stopped directly in front of the tall nation, Russia was far from the point where he would injure France. But if France's hunch was correct a few bruises would definitely be well worth it anyways. Ivan stood his ground stubbornly and glared, his dominant instinct preventing him from backing down even an inch. France had both counted on and was happy about that - it would make it so much more _fun_ when he broke down the Russian's defenses.

Smile still firmly in place and his cornflower blue eyes dancing with mischievous amusement, France reached out a hand and poked again at Russia's ribs. The grin widened even further when the usually unflinching nation jumped slightly and moved his hand to cover the spot. Another poke prompted another cringe. A gentle squeeze at the side of his belly brought out a low, clipped whine and earned France's wrist a vice grip by a massive hand. Unafraid and his body heating up in that tingly, oh-so-familiar way, France leaned flush into Russia's large chest with a chuckle. He used his free hand to dance his fingertips quickly up the left side of Russia's ribcage.

With a barked laugh, Russia flinched and released his hold on France, using the other hand to push him away again. France stumbled backwards once more and giggled at the flustered scowl on Ivan's face. He was far less menacing with a blush tinting his pale cheeks and ears.

"Ah it seems I was right." France said, smooth French accent thick with delight and something much less innocent, "_Chatouilleux._"

Russia blinked at him in confusion, "What?" he asked in a voice lower than his usual higher pitch.

"_Chatouilleux_," France said again, smile turning wolfish and eyes darkening with lust, "Ticklish," he clarified in English, "Very ticklish." He added, recalling Russia's strong reactions to his simple touch.

"Ticklish…" Russia repeated, obviously still puzzled over France's actions and his own responses, "Is that what that was? How strange." The violet-eyed nation cocked his head to the side in an owlish manner that Francis found adorable.

"You did not know what it was?" France asked with disbelief. When he really thought about it, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. From what he knew and had heard or studied of Russia's past, it had been the exact opposite of a happy or affection-filled one. It made sense that the tormented nation had never been tickled before.

_Onhonhonhon_, France laughed to himself. This was going to be a lot more fun than he thought!

The rumors of France's sexual prowess that circulated around the nations were far from being just rumors. The charming Frenchmen had been with an incredible number of men and women over his long life and also many of his fellow nations; though some were loath to admit it. He had even been with Russia a few times, mostly long ago during the era of French influence on the other country. Those times, though thoroughly charged with scorching, sweat-soaked passion, had been rather quick, and France had never gotten the chance to really explore his temporary lover. Now, over a century since their last tryst, France was hoping to have the chance to conduct a much more thorough examination.

Just as he had done almost everyone, France had also done almost everything. There was no kink that he hadn't at least heard of, and tickling was one that had come up multiple times before. In fact, it was one of his favorite foreplay activities. England hadn't appreciated that at all, if the death glare from the floor onto which he had fallen with all his violent squirming was any indication. It had turned Spain on immensely though (a fact that France had happily shared with Romano, much to the Italian's volatile irritation). France wondered if it would do the same for Russia. Not that it would stop Francis if it didn't; he just couldn't pass up the chance to have the stronger nation writhing beneath him.

"Nyet." Russia finally responded to the question, his slightly childlike voice and default expression back in place, "Should I have? It does not seem like something worth knowing."

"Hmmm, but I enjoy it _mon cher_," France replied smoothly. His devious smile returned and he advanced towards Russia again, "_Russie_."

"_Da_?" Russia answered, tensing as France drew closer. The handsome Frenchmen looked to the side of Russia to confirm that his bed was right behind the other nation. With that established, he looked daringly into Ivan's eyes and brought his hands up, curling his fingers into wriggling, faux-claws.

"Perhaps I will show you why I enjoy it."

France pounced. He collided forcefully with the larger nation, his momentum pushing him and Russia onto the bed behind. A startled Ivan suddenly found himself on his back on the soft mattress, the breath knocked from his lungs, and a playful Francis straddling his hips. Once he had the other suitably pinned, France wasted no time in digging experienced fingers gently into Russia's ribs.

Russia gave a rather unmanly squeal and immediately began thrashing. His lips stretched into a wide, forced grin and his eyebrows knit together as he shook his head and clutched, completely uncoordinated, at France's shirt. It was obvious that Ivan had no experience with being tickled from the way he couldn't even gather his wits enough to successfully push France away. Francis laughed heartily and continued his torture, determined to coax a laugh out of the moody nation. But Russia, for all his squirming, was not really making any noise yet. The laughter that did escape was silent and gasping, his forced smile the only proof that he wasn't choking.

France pouted, well that wouldn't do. He wanted to hear the other nation's laugh – his real one, not the fake one he pulled out during meetings. He began poking and prodding down Russia's ribs and the spaces between, earning full body jerks. When his fingers hit the area directly underneath Ivan's ribs, Ivan bucked harshly and nearly sent him toppling onto the floor. Francis recovered quickly and grinned.

"Oho, a weak spot,_ non_?" he asked teasingly. Russia took the short reprieve as a chance to reach his hands up into the general vicinity of France's face – an action of which no good could ever come. "Ah ah, none of that now." Francis said. He knocked the hands away with a quick sweeping motion before returning his fingers to wiggle beneath Russia's ribs again.

Ivan seized up again and arched his back. He tried to clamp his arms to his sides, but that only trapped France's hands instead of stopping them. After a few seconds of writhing and choking, audible laughter finally emerged, much to France's pleasure.

Russia's laugh was deeper than his normal childish giggling and seemed to shake his whole body. It was also a little rough, as if it hadn't been used in a long time, and was interspersed with moments of gasping. The sound caused something inside of France's chest to twist and flutter like a flag in the wind, the smile on his face was now rivaling Ivan's.

"There we go." Francis said happily, beginning to alternate between attacking the spots beneath Russia's ribs and pinching down the sides of his belly. This earned another torrent of laughter and more floundering.

As he continued his attack, France noticed that the long ends of Russia's scarf were in danger of getting tangled in flailing arms. He used one hand to gently push the cloth behind Ivan's head and out of harm's way; he knew how important the scarf was to Russia and that he'd be devastated and furious if something were to happen to it. France did not want to be at the receiving end of Russia's rage, not now and not ever again. When he was finished, he returned to focusing on the pattern his fingers traced across the firm muscle and pliant flesh that could be easily felt through Ivan's thin shirt.

Russia, starting to regain his bearings a little, placed a hand on France's shoulder and the other on his France's face to try and push him away. Francis clucked his tongue at this effort and used the raised arms as an opportunity to wriggle his fingers into Russia's armpits, causing the nation to give a choked howl that devolved into a stream of giggles. France nipped at the palm of the hand on his face and moved so said hand fell to instead clutch frenziedly at France's other shoulder. Ivan once again tried to push him away, but the tickling had weakened the nation to the point where he could not gather enough strength. He gave up the effort completely when Francis dug his fingers into the upper ribs, just beneath the underarms.

"Oooh another good spot." France teased as Russia's laughter significantly increased in volume and desperation, "I have to say, I would not have expected you to be ticklish at all and certainly not this much," he grinned, "it is _très mignon_."

Russia attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to form coherent words, obviously trying to respond. Francis decided that he wasn't in the mood to hear threats or insults and hiked up Russia's shirt, revealing a sturdy, well-muscled abdomen. France scrabbled his fingers along the pale skin; skirting his fingertips around gentle slopes of muscle and taking care to avoid the large pink scar that ran a few inches down the left side of the stomach. Russia's abdominals clenched and rippled under the attention as the larger nation threw his head back, digging it into the soft mattress beneath. His laughter gained a higher, more frantic tenor that delighted Francis.

As he explored the stomach, he discovered that there was a bit of pudge along Ivan's lower belly, a fact that France found incredibly endearing for some reason. He wiggled his fingertips into it while the other hand played around the belly button, making Russia wheeze laughter and clutch more frantically at France's silk shirt. Russia's feet were still touching the ground and France could feel the strong thigh muscles trapped underneath him tense as Russia kicked at the carpet in a desperate attempt to gain traction and propel himself away.

"N…nyet!" Ivan gasped between laughing fits, finally finding his voice again, "СТОП! Frantsiya_**, **__stop_!"

France only laughed at that, making no move to stop. Russia did not seem to be having any problems catching his breath yet, so he was fine. Francis hummed and took a moment to really look at Ivan again, immediately determining that the other nation was incredibly attractive like this. Russia's cheeks were flushed red, his silver hair was mussed, and there were tears of laughter forming in his eyes.

Francis's favorite part, though, was the wide, real smile that dominated the Russian's face. He knew that smile would most likely turn into a scowl as soon as he stopped tickling and that he would probably find himself on the business end of Russia's fist, but he was so turned on that he couldn't bring himself to care. The thick body beneath him was incredibly appealing and Russia's writhing hips were grinding right into France's erection. Just having control over the normally dominating nation, even in such a silly way, was enough to have France's chest heaving and his cock throbbing with arousal.

Suddenly, Russia decided to try curling in on himself to fend off France's attacks. He rolled onto his side, moving Francis along with him in the process, drew his legs up further onto the bed, and clamped his arms down to protect his sides. France chuckled and abandoned Ivan's ribs, instead starting to dig his fingers into the soft, fleshy areas directly above the hip bones, earning a yowl and Russia flipping completely onto his stomach on the bed.

Francis stopped for a moment, letting Russia rest, and wondered what he should go for next. As the nation beneath him breathed heavily, France turned to look at Ivan's socked feet with an evil grin. He turned fully around and scooted down to sit on Russia's thighs then took hold of an ankle and forced Russia's leg to bend at the knee, pulling a large foot up towards him. Holding Ivan's leg steady by the ankle, Francis ran his fingernails down the foot's arch.

"A…AAH!" Russia yelped loudly. His upper body writhed frantically and his free leg flailed, thumping the bed. Then with a strong kick, he freed his foot from France's grasp. Francis laughed heartily, he would definitely have to explore that further another time- possibly with rope involved. Instead he moved back up and played his fingers along Russia's ribs again, causing laughter to flow once more, uninhibited. Francis stayed there for about a minute until he decided he should probably stop before Ivan passed out on him.

Pulling his fingers away from Russia's torso, Francis rolled off the panting, sweaty nation to lie beside him on the bed. He reached a hand down squeeze the aching hardness that was tenting the front of his pants and groaned. He was ridiculously aroused. He laid there stroking himself for a few moments, waiting for Russia's rage. When Russia did nothing but flip onto his back and lay there, Francis turned his head to look at the other.

Ivan, still red-faced and breathing heavily, was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Those violet orbs also contained something much more inviting: want. Upon seeing that, France looked down and noticed that Russia was very much hard and, just like Francis remembered, it was large enough that the buttons on Ivan's pants were being harshly strained.

"I am guessing you liked that as well _mon cher_." France panted, tired from holding down the thrashing Russian. He sat up and threw a leg over Ivan, straddling him again and rubbing their lengths together. He leaned down to kiss Russia's stomach, dragging his fingertips lightly down Russia's sides and making him flinch. "Would you like me to show you more?"

In an instant, Russia's eyes went from wide and innocent to darkened with arousal. He wrapped thick arms around France's waist and threw him to the side, reversing their position so he was now straddling the smaller nation.

Having pinned Francis, Ivan leaned over to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. Tongues battled fiercely and France began to buck his hips into Ivan's, desperate for more contact. He groaned unhappily when Russia unexpectedly broke the kiss and nipped at the stubble on Francis's chin before pulling away completely. The ravished nation looked up imploringly at Russia only to see him flashing a feral grin.

"I think it is being my turn to show now, da?"

France swallowed thickly, the dangerous edge to Russia's voice only making him more excited. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
